For obvious reasons, I didn’t participate in the demonstrations last Sunday. I must confess: Even if I were in Brazil at the time, I wouldn’t have. Agglomerations scare me to death, and I loathe the simple perspective of violence.
I admire those who expose themselves, but my weapon is the written word, which I use fearlessly and without parsimony — a sort of security and relaxation made possible by the physical distance between my country and me. I keep mixed feelings of trauma and nostalgia about the military dictatorship — a generational issue, we must agree. As many others, I could have exercised my non-right to rebel, but haven’t done that either. I was a nice girl, I mean, a fearful, scared girl. I’ve never enjoyed taking risks, and danger does not excite me.
On this side of the Equator — ex-president Lula would say “on the other side of the Atlantic,” but as he publicly stated his support to troublemakers and wannabe terrorists, there’s no longer fun in mentioning his pathetic ignorance —, it causes me pain and concern to think about Brazil’s unavoidable trajectory towards the abyss. Part of the solution, I believe, is hitting rock bottom in a future not yet determined, hopefully soon enough to spare us further trouble. And even though I honestly tend to oppose the idea of an impeachment so far, I can’t envision Dilma’s escape from this quagmire she has put herself into. Dommage.
One of the reasons is that the president doesn’t seem capable of affirming a position. Secretly, perhaps, in her intimate confusion, she envisions some hint of a course correction for the institutions. In the real world, though, she acts like a tamed dog, tied by its leash to ex-president Lula — an icon of archaism, a beacon of ignorance and moral regression, who clearly encourages public chaos and other misleading positions (theoretical up to this moment), such as, for example, the disguised leadership of a gang whose activities would include urban violence. Let’s hope it will not extend to the recruiting of children and the selling of heroin.
If I had voted for him, by now I would certainly regret it: “What a disappointment!”
It’s hard to figure a moral justification for people who simultaneously defend Petrobras and the government that destroyed it — a morally unexplainable, indefensible political paradox. There are certainly a few nostalgic and penitent card-carrying petistas, and those go out on a higher note, although, I know, out of tune with my heartfelt negativity — “due to a wrong association of concepts equaling sympathy with shame, judgment, regret.” They say it is easy to understand: “Petrobras belongs to Brazil.” Poor Brazil, reduced to a pile of endless scandals and administrative debris, a mere shadow of the vigorous giant it once claimed to be, for a few seconds in the national History clock.
Considering my personal journey, there’s a meager years’ count in which I managed to live without the imposing and horrific burden of high inflation, not to mention the bureaucracy “claws” always trying to choke me. My career trajectory, as you all know, is an impressive compilation of successful failures, throughout which so many attacks against free enterprise resulted in frequent depression. The keyword to all the professions I exercised remained unchanged: “Impossibility.” In the lowest point of the entrepreneurial “bungee jump,” I would find myself ready to start from scratch, to reinvent myself and start trying once again.
Today, on this side of the globe, I find it hard to comprehend that I managed to escape. Even tied to the electronic leash of the love for one’s homeland, and considering my persistent dedication to entrepreneurial adventure, I’m safe from these insane, corrupted business fluctuations. Outraged by the daily changes in the currency value, that makes domestic survival increasingly difficult, I’m constantly reminded of a previously buried past. While enduring the painful sensation of jumping backwards in the dark without a safety net — my depiction of a life in Brazil — I start the webbing of new threads in the exile, where, due to previous trauma, I’m still unable to trust anyone, or anything.
As my Brazilian side stumbles (once again!) and vacillates — the Brazilian government keeps tricking, thus devouring the hope of those who could, but wouldn’t invest in a future blessedness (I would say “change,” but the term has been widely hackneyed and used in vain) —, the adventurous fearless foreigner proceeds. While the everyday earnings bleed, the main assets grow in the bank thanks to exchange rate inertia, saved from downfall just in time, lucky me. Considering the current scene, I’d better make things clear, once and for all: these assets are a 100 percent honest, sent abroad, according to strict regulations, to this oasis of stability where the law is the rule, not the exception — what a relief.
It’s the Gestalt of the glass half-full, in a dispute with the glass half-empty — a frantic dance between the background and the subject.
Have a great week, folks. Be well.
 People affiliated with the Workers’ Party (PT).